


Sing All You Want

by errantcomment



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Domestic Violence, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errantcomment/pseuds/errantcomment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lives alone in 221B. John is one of Mrs Turner's 'married ones' next door. Almost every day Sherlock sees him limping home, sometimes waiting quite a long time to see it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing All You Want

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?replyto=43845260) on the kinkmeme and originally posted on my LJ. 
> 
> Since original posting has been lightly beta'd by oxfordtweed. Consider this the second edition, if you will. 
> 
> Beta'd at time of posting by heqa.

_Really, it could have been a lot worse_ , Sherlock conceded as he threw himself on the sofa of 221B Baker Street, the new residence of the world’s only consulting detective. It would have been nice if Mike had been able to find him a flatshare, especially since the rent was a little steep, but the odious Sebastian had paid generously, so he had given Mrs. Hudson six months in advance, which meant something else he didn’t have to worry about, and now... what? There was some piffling case from his brother, who seemed to worry that Sherlock would somehow wither and die without a regular dose of government-based intrigue. That could wait. His violin was on the other side of the room, but he had already made himself comfortable. The last text from Molly had not been complimentary, so presumably the morgue was off for this evening. Tomorrow he would be able to go back and worm his way in with a throwaway comment about her new dress, but for tonight he was stuck in the flat.

His eyes drifted across to the rug in front of the fireplace. He knew that if you levered up one of the boards, there would be a little box inside... but that would mean getting up as well. He sighed and looked at the ceiling, listening to the buzz of the fridge and the quiet clanking of the hot-water pipes. Mrs Hudson fumbled and dropped a mug with a clack. A car shushed past in the damp of the evening. The silence crowded in. Sherlock lay on the couch with his hands on his chest, and looked at the cracks in the plaster.

The next day, when it transpired that the Milk Fairies had not visited in the night (along with the Bread Without Green Bits Fairy and the Lettuce That Wasn’t Brown And Kind Of Soupy Fairy), Sherlock wrapped himself in his coat and sallied forth. Once out the door, he checked for his phone and wallet just as his scarf chose that moment to attempt to wrap itself round his face, picked up by the cold wind.

“Ow,” said someone outside Sherlock’s field of vision (which wasn’t hard; at that very moment it was mostly grey fabric) as they bounced off his chest.

“Oof,” Sherlock responded. Finally taming his scarf (mentally promising to burn it as soon as he got in again) he looked down into the eyes of... What was his name? Something beginning with J? They’d met briefly at the corner-shop that one time... Anyway, one of Mrs. Turner’s “married ones." The one that used to be in the military until he was invalided home. Sherlock had often spotted him leaving and returning home, along with that tall chap who wasn’t in the military, probably a lawyer, judging by the standard of his pristine suits. This one did the shopping at Tesco’s three times a week (except when they ran out of small essentials, when he went to the corner-shop), did some sort of medical thing — therapist, maybe physio, once a week, and didn’t get enough sleep. He had a cane, expensive, made of wood, cut down to be the right height for him — probably a present from the tall chap. His face was worn. Right now he was sitting on the pavement.

“Oh, sorry,” Sherlock said, and was surprised that he actually meant it. “Let me help you up.”

The other man looked up, annoyed and then resigned. (Did he know every emotion he felt flitted across his face like that?) He took Sherlock’s hand and, with the use of the stick, hauled himself upright.

“Are you alright?” More sincerity. It must be because of the Green Bits. Didn’t scrape them all off the toast last night or something.

“Just my pride. You’re... Sherlock, right? From next door.”

“Yes. I’m renting 221B. You must be...”

“John, John... Davidson.” A little pause, still not used to the name change.

“Ah, yes, sorry, I have the most appalling memory for names.” A social lie, better than ‘I never thought I’d need to remember it’.

“Yes, well, not everyone can have such an... Interesting name.” John smiled.

“I suppose not. Are you sure you’re alright?” Sherlock wondered who’d taken over his mouth. He usually wouldn’t bother to continue a conversation with someone so ordinary, let alone over such mundane things as his name.

“Yes, really. I fall down a lot.” John waved the stick by means of explanation. “Winter’s the worst time.”

“I can imagine!” Sherlock mentally slapped his forehead. He really was the king of sparkling wit today. “I was just off to the shops, need milk... And things...” Oscar Wilde, eat your heart out.

“I’m going to therapy.” John’s face closed down at that. “In fact, I’m going to be late.”

“Oh, well, nice to bump into you — I mean, nice to meet you.” Oh god, this was terrible. Like lumpy custard in conversation form.

“Yes...” John looked amused as he moved off. Sherlock allowed himself a wince. Maybe instead of buying milk, he could just fling himself into the Thames, thus never having to even think about John Davidson ever again.

When he got home (milk, bread, and something brightly coloured from the International Food aisles that didn’t have any English on it) he made a cup of tea, and settled by the window. He watched John Davidson limp up the street (and that was odd, but it wasn’t, was it? Wait, why was that odd?) But then Lestrade called and Sherlock quite forgot about the worn man with the limp.

The next time they met, Davidson was struggling with some bags of heavy shopping, so Sherlock helped him up the stairs to the flat with them. He hoped that Davidson didn’t notice how out of breath he was, it had been quite difficult to get dressed in time to meet him outside. John smiled at him at the door and Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat.

“Do you want to come in for a cuppa?” John fiddled with his key-ring.

“Uh. No, it’s — I have to — uh — excuse me, I think I left my mould samples on the boil.” Sherlock fled.

About a month passed (spoke five times, smiled at each other twice, introduced Colin, who was John’s husband — Sherlock hadn’t liked him. Once, magically, amazingly, Sherlock had grabbed John by the right arm, and round the waist when he slipped on a patch of ice). Sherlock had a case about cat-burglary that lasted a week, ending in an arrest and Sherlock nursing a black eye (Lestrade had been very nice about it, and hardly giggled at all at the sight of Sherlock fending off a sweet old granny with the biggest knuckledusters in the history of things designed to make you bleed). He sighed and sat on the couch, holding a bag of peas to his eye, a cup of tea next to him, and answered some e-mails. He was particularly absorbed in working out a veiled insult to Mycroft, who was once again fussing over him, so he didn’t hear the stairs till someone tapped on the door.

“Oh... Uh...” Sherlock could feel ice-water sliding down into the sleeve of his (now he came to think about it, quite ratty) dressing-gown. “Hi... John...”

John Davidson grinned up at him. He was holding a carrier bag in one hand, along with Sherlock’s mail. “Hi. Busy day then?”

“Uh... Oh. Yes. Little old ladies have strange things in their handbags.” Sherlock took away the bag of peas so that he could look at John without having to turn his head awkwardly.

“Ouch, quite a shiner. Shall I take a look at that?”

“What, no...” Sherlock backed up, and John put down the carrier-bag.

“Don’t worry, I’m a doctor. Well, I used to be.”

“You’re not working?” The backs of Sherlock’s knees bumped against a chair, and John reached up his right hand (why not his left? That was his dominant hand) to touch a cut under his eye.

“Not at the moment. Did anyone look at this?”

“No.” Sherlock clutched the bag of peas. John smelled of clean laundry and soap, and faintly of London at night. His hands were warm where they touched his face. Sherlock tried not to breathe, in case it blew away the feathering feel of his fingers. Finally, John stepped back.

“Well, it probably should be alright. Don’t pick at it, and you’ll be fine.”

John chuckled as Sherlock tried to smile, and then winced in pain.

“I did have an ulterior motive for coming over.” John fiddled with his cane. “I noticed you’d been out a lot recently, and you didn’t seem to be getting shopping in, and Colin is working late but I didn’t know till I’d cooked dinner...”

Sherlock didn’t really hear what John had cooked. John had noticed he’d been out a lot? Did that mean he’d been watching him from 219? Even noticed the shopping? What else had he noticed?

“Hmm?” Sherlock started out of his shopping-bag based reverie.

“I said, where are the plates?”

“Oh. Um. One moment...” Sherlock was suddenly terribly aware of the state of the kitchen. He was pretty sure there were plates. Plates for eating even. Maybe — maybe in the sink? He flapped through the kitchen, dropping the peas on the counter with a sort of splat, and scrabbled about in a cupboard.

“Um, they’re a bit dusty.”

John raised his eyebrows at the state of the kitchen, but said nothing. As Sherlock found a dishcloth and rubbed at the plates, he looked round the flat in evident interest.

“That’s a skull.” he pointed with his cane at the mantelpiece.

“Oh, yes. Friend of mine. Well, I say friend.” Sherlock tried not to giggle nervously, and brought the plates through to the front room. “Sorry, I’ve got all the... the experiments...” he faded away, and briefly considered throttling himself with the tea towel.

“That’s alright. I didn’t mean to disturb, anyway.” John carefully sat in the chair by the fire. Sherlock thought it quite suited him. John Davidson (what was his other name, anyway?), in the chair, sitting, in Sherlock’s flat. Sitting. Oh lord.

“Um, so, were you in Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked once the silence was quite awkward enough.

“What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Because even when he was close to throwing himself out of a window with nerves, Sherlock was still Sherlock and he hated repeating himself.

“Afghanistan — how did you know that?” John stopped, fork full of stewed meat. Sherlock smiled. He knew about this. This was easy.

“I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists — you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, and when you come back from either psychotherapy or physiotherapy, and sometimes in the morning — I suppose you sleep on it wrong or something, but you made it all the way up the stairs with my mail and a pot of stew, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic — wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan — Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John stared at him for a moment. Sherlock changed his mind — after John stormed out, he would throw himself down the stairs instead of out of the window.

“That... Was amazing,” John said finally, and ate a forkful of peas.

“You think so?” Sherlock looked at him warily. He might still throw the plate of stew and steaming gravy. You only needed to be hit in the face once by ballistic potatoes to know you didn’t want it to happen again.

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.”

Sherlock blinked. “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?” John seemed interested.

“Piss off.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched. John’s twitched back. The silence was more companionable after that.

John left soon after dinner. Sherlock remembered to thank him. Mummy would have been proud.

“It’s no problem, any time.” John carefully started to move down the stairs.

The next day, Sherlock accidentally bumped into John going to the shops.

“We can walk together.” Sherlock heard himself offer.

“Oh, alright then,” John agreed amicably. There was silence for a moment.

“Why aren’t you working?” Sherlock asked, finally. He’d never been good at small talk.

“Well, I can’t, really. Not with this leg. The army don’t want me back.” John smiled thinly, frustrated. “Anyway, Colin — Colin says I’ve done enough looking after people. It’s his turn to look after me,”

“It sounds like he cares for you a lot,” Sherlock said softly.

“Yes, he’s very good to me.” John smiled at the cane in his hand. After a moment he said, “You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

“Girlfriend?” Sherlock tried not to sound surprised. “No, not really my area.”

“Oh. Right then. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No,” Sherlock said shortly.

“Right, okay.”

“Um. I’m married to my work, really.” Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Shame.”

“What?”

“You could use someone else about the place. Feed you up. Tell you where the plates are kept.” John was looking at him sidelong, teasing.

“Is that what girlfriends do? Feed you up?” Sherlock tried to keep the disdain from his voice and ignore the runny toffee feeling that John’s teasing gave him.

“That’s part of it, certainly.” John sounded more amused than offended though. Sherlock tried to ignore the warm glow in his chest.

So Sherlock helped John with the shopping and John gave him a cup of tea. 219A was different to 221B. The furniture matched, and there were no acid stains on the kitchen table. The sink was clean, and John knew where the cups were straight away. (Sherlock had a feeling there might be some in one of the drawers at home, but he had one mug he used for pretty much everything). The kettle had just boiled when there was a foot on the stair.

“Honey, I’m home!” Colin called, as he made his way into the bedroom. A few moments later, he emerged, still wearing his shirt and dress pants. He kissed John soundly on the mouth. Sherlock’s stomach was suddenly made of centipedes or worms or caterpillars or woodlice or something, all crawling over one another.

“How are you, mate?” he grabbed Sherlock by the hand with one of his large hard hands and squeezed — more a show of strength than a friendly gesture.

“Fine, thanks, I helped John with the shopping,” Sherlock managed, as an explanation. He didn’t flex his hand when Colin relinquished it. It seemed important somehow.

“Oh, thanks, that’s appreciated. We uh, limp along the best we can, but I can’t be home all the time, unfortunately.” John looked at the counter. Was he ashamed?

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, for lack of a better word. John was still looking down at the counter. One of his hands had a fine tremble in them — another symptom of his PTSD perhaps — Colin appeared not to notice. Sherlock didn’t like Colin much. He had a rank smell under expensive cologne, and his grin always had a few too many teeth to be real. He had old scars on his knuckles, maybe boxing, but more likely bare-knuckle fighting, perhaps in bars — sometimes he’d spotted him coming home late, weaving slightly, disarrayed. But he made John happy, so perhaps he was a good man, for all that.

“I’m dying for a cuppa. Go sit down love, I’ll make it, you never get the milk right.” Colin chivvied John out of the kitchen with a gentle but firm shove. Sherlock stayed for the cup of tea, but it wasn’t the same easy, if shy, atmosphere. Colin filled it with his lion-smell, his too-loud voice, his insistence that John sit next to him, on the sofa, where he couldn’t ease his leg properly, but Colin could rest a hand on his knee. Sherlock made his excuses and, once outside, kicked a Coke can so that it sprang and tumbled, quite accidentally hitting Colin’s expensive car and even more accidentally leaving a mark on the shiny paintwork.

The next day, when he got home, Mycroft was sitting in the chair in which John Davidson had looked so at home. Sherlock hated him for squishing the dent John had left in it with his big well-upholstered bottom, and briefly considered telling him so.

“What do you want, Mycroft? I told you, I’m not doing the Sumatra case. It’s dull and quite preposterous.”

“This has nothing to do with the government, and everything to do with you pining after John Davidson.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do, don’t be ridiculous. Davidson is married, Sherlock, you can’t continue with the association as it stands.”

“As usual, you’re reading into this in completely the wrong way,” Sherlock complained. “He comes for dinner once, and you assume I’m having an affair! Really Mycroft, your mind is so sordid.”

After Mycroft left, he found some spray-paint and painted ‘PISS OFF MYCROFT’ backwards on the windows overlooking the street in big yellow letters, so any camera trained on his home would read it the right way round. This adequately relieved his feelings.

After his therapy session that week, John came for a cup of tea.

“I bought some orange Clubs. Colin can’t abide them, but I like to indulge after therapy. Therapy for the therapy, you might say.” He tore the packet open and shoved one in his mouth, eyes closing in bliss. Sherlock hoped he would never forget the little smile that played round the corners of John’s mouth, or the little smear of chocolate on his top lip.

Three orange Club-flavoured weeks later, Sherlock went running out of the house. The game was on, and time was wasting. He was so wrapped up in Lestrade’s text that he didn’t notice John till he ran slap into him. They both went down, Sherlock’s phone skittering away. He disentangled himself from that damned scarf (later he would burn it, and then scatter the ashes to the wind, see if he didn’t) in time to see his phone go under the wheel of a cab. Sherlock stared in disbelief — the universe wouldn’t be so cruel, surely, and let out a manly whimper.

“Er, do you think you could get off me?” said the muffled voice under him.

“Oh. Of course, sorry!” Sherlock scrambled upright, and put a hand down for John.

“Good grief, is there any part of you that isn’t a right angle?” John grumbled as he pulled himself upright.

“My phone...” Sherlock stared.

“Oh no...” John followed his gaze to the little pile of shattered plastic.

“Quick, give me yours.” Sherlock held out a demanding hand. John scrabbled in a pocket, and held it out to him. His wrist was clearly bruised. Like he’d been tied up and left. Sherlock caught his hand, the phone forgotten.

“What is that?” he pushed up the sleeve of John’s comfortable coat and the jumper underneath it. Bruises. Someone’s fingers, digging in. Large hands. He looked at John, and knew. And John saw that he knew. He snatched his hand away.

“I—I have to go.”

“Who did that?” Sherlock caught his sleeve and John flinched. Sherlock felt a heartstring break with a timorous squeak. John never flinched.

“I — Someone tried to mug me,” he said finally.

“And they tied you up? Left you dangling somewhere?” Sherlock demanded.

“Yes. Must’ve done,” John said, his face, for once, not betraying anything. Sherlock stared at him for a long moment. A car pulled up alongside him.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade leaned out the window. “Now!” John pulled away from Sherlock’s grasp like he was a hot oven.

“My phone, please.” John held out his hand. It shook slightly. He let it drop, looking down again. Sherlock handed him the phone. Then he got into the car.

“Yes yes, I’ve got it sorted. Some fool ran over my phone," he heard himself saying to Lestrade, as he watched John Davidson slowly limp down the road. Mugged. Right.

After that, there was a week where John seemed to go out of his way to avoid Sherlock- he changed his shopping times, he never seemed to leave the house, though once or twice, Sherlock caught him looking out of the window. On Tuesday, Sherlock made a revelation. He thumped himself in the head with the heel of his hand. How could he have been so blind? He bumped into Colin once or twice. Colin’s mouth smiled but not his eyes. Did he know that Sherlock knew? John wouldn’t meet his eye when Sherlock accidentally walked into him on his way to the morgue. Mycroft was insufferable about the whole thing.

 _“I’m sorry little brother,”_ his text read. _“You’ll find someone else.”_ Sherlock had considered smashing his new phone, but it had a qwerty keyboard and everything. Instead he left a small smoke-bomb in his brother’s office. _“Childish”_ the next text read. Sherlock grinned, and felt a bit better.

In the end, after turning down an interesting arson case and something about a missing tiara to sit at his window, he spotted John Davidson stepping out of the flat, leaning heavily on his stick. Sherlock almost fell down the stairs getting out and intercepting him.

“Sherlock — I can’t stop—” the shorter man stuttered.

“Shut up.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled the sleeve up. “You got mugged again? How unfortunate. I see they used rope — no, wait, silk cloth — this time instead of handcuffs. Your limp is terrible today, it hasn’t been this bad since about a week ago, and then about a week before that, you must get mugged regularly. And of course, they seem to have left a rather nasty lovebite on your neck, that’s sexual assault too, I can call my colleague at Scotland Yard if you like, we can hunt these bastards down, John, make sure they don’t hurt you or anyone else?” John stood very still, but Sherlock could feel the fine tremble through his hand, and the tension in the lines of that lovely but careworn (bags under eyes, not sleeping as well) face. He wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“The game is up,” Sherlock said softly.

“I—Look. It’s not like that. I’m small and weak, it’s easy to get carried away. I’m too sensitive as well... Everyone says so,” John gabbled. “It’s just an accident. Really. It hardly ever happens.”

“It happens at least once a week though,” Sherlock pointed out.

“It’s none of your business. You’re just interfering and — and—” John broke off. “Look, just piss off.” And with that, he left. Sherlock stood in the street for quite a long time afterwards.

On the third day, Sherlock was standing at the window in his pyjamas, moodily dipping a spoon into a jar of Marmite and licking it clean when Mycroft came over.

“That’s vile,” he said, as he looked round the untidy flat in disdain.

“Go away, Mycroft.”

“Not until you cease to act like a teenage girl.”

“I’m not acting like a teenage girl.”

Mycroft sighed. “You know it’s for the best. He’s a married man. You would have never have won him for yourself.”

“Yes, I thought you’d be pleased. You were right, I was wrong. If you’ve just come to be a smug git, you can close the door on your way out.”

“Funnily enough, there is no sort of advantage to me in having you in this state,” Mycroft said, mildly.

Marmite scented sullen silence.

“Stop being so dramatic. There’ll be others,” Mycroft said as a parting shot, as he went down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t there to let him out, so no one saw the mouth-twitch when he heard a series of thumps and the sound of a shower running from the flat above.

Once a week, Colin would come home very late, usually in a state of some inebriation. It wasn’t difficult to convince the woman in 219A to let him into the building (“Johnny don’ know ’m coming, I got some surprise leave, like.”) and knock on the door of 219A. John opened the door cautiously.

“How the hell did you get in?” he said, by way of greeting.

“I —I just wanted to say—” for once, Sherlock’s throat dried up. The words he’d carefully prepared in the shower and as he put on John’s favourite shirt (the white one, John always licked the corner of his mouth when he saw it, as well as when he ate donuts, and when he saw that skinny bloke who was on the telly sometimes), and bluffed his way into the building, all faded away.

“I bought you your lid back.” he held out the Pyrex lid.

“That’s not mine.” John made to close the door. “It’s too small.”

“No, John, can I come in? Please, I want to apologise.”

John stepped out, and leant against the wall, arms crossed, eyes wary.

“Well?”

“Well, I’m... I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry for what I said. It was rude.”

“Yes, it was.” John stared at him. It was warm in the hallway, but he was still wearing his shirt sleeves buttoned down. Sherlock knew what would be under them.

“You got mugged again,” he said. John’s face tightened. “What is it going to take? How many times before it’s proof enough that he doesn’t love you? Before he hobbles you properly so you can’t run away?”

“Shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So you’re telling me that you want him to grab you and tell you you’re worthless? You like when he ties you up so you can’t move and doesn’t stop when you ask him? That’s love is it?”

John wouldn’t look at him, rubbing his arms.

“If that’s what you want, tell me, and I’ll leave. I’ll never bother you again.” Sherlock took a step closer. John looked up at this.

“I — I—” the front door opened.

“John? Don’t tell me it’s those cha—” Colin called, and then looked at Sherlock, standing only a breath from John. John, looking up at him. “You... Bastard,” he ground out. “I knew it! You little slut!” he shoved Sherlock out of the way and grabbed John by the arm, shaking him. “I told you to stay away from him.” John hung limply from his grip. Colin raised a hand.

“I think you should stop that.” Suddenly Sherlock was holding the other man’s arm, round the wrist. He dug a thumbnail into the delicate veins on the inside of his wrist. Colin howled. Sherlock hung on. Colin dropped John, who sagged against the wall, and turned on Sherlock, other arm raised. Sherlock punched him on the nose, which burst very satisfactorily.

“Sherlock, no!” John said, as Colin reeled back, spouting blood. Sherlock rubbed his knuckles, and then ran his hands through his hair, watching the other man. Colin moved, whether to lunge for John or Sherlock, no one could tell.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said, softly. He put himself between John and the taller man, crowding Colin, using the extra height lent to him by his hair to intimidate the other man. “You will not touch him.”

“Are you going to stop me?” but it was less certain, Colin was eying Sherlock nervously now.

“Yes. Because I know your type, Colin. Was it your mother that hit you? Or maybe Daddy, more likely Daddy, probably wanted you to be a real man. Maybe he hit Mum too. Who cares, you don’t talk to them any more, though you claim it’s because you’re busy rather than because you simply can’t face them anymore,” Sherlock caught his eye and stared him down. “And of course, you just didn’t tell them you preferred men, not till they’d finished paying for your degree, maybe you even took a couple of girlfriends, closed your eyes and thought of someone else, so they wouldn’t get suspicious. Broke some hearts, but that was okay, you didn’t like them that much anyway.” Colin’s fists were clenched but Sherlock carried on, hypnotising him with cold eyes. “And here we are today. History repeating, you’ve finally become your father. Maybe you like the power that comes from systematic abuse. Or maybe you’re just worried that one morning he’ll wake up and realise what a massive phony you are, and that he can do better. That you’ll be all by yourself, surrounded by friends you don’t really like and coming home to this empty flat.” Sherlock leaned in. Colin leaned back. “You will die alone, and afraid.” This could have been the end of his deduction, it could have been a prophecy. Colin looked at John. John wouldn’t meet his eye, and Colin spat at him, before slamming the door behind him. Sherlock breathed out.

“Are you — are you alright?” he asked John.

“Um, no, actually.” John gripped that antique stick, cut down just for him.

“You can come and stay at mine tonight. You can have my bed, I’ll take the couch. He might come back, after all.”

At 221B, John sat on the couch, curled in his coat and jumper despite the warmth of the room. Sherlock brought him a steaming mug, and sat on the coffee table beside him. They didn’t speak. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say. John’s face was blank, he barely moved. Sherlock lent John a pair of pyjama bottoms — they were a bit too long, and it was sheer luck that they fit around his stocky form at all, but Sherlock didn’t smile, even though he looked like a child in silk pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, clutching his little bundle of clothes. After John shut the door, he sat on the couch staring at the fire.

“Well?” he said to the skull. The skull remained mute. “Thanks for your help.”

His phone beeped. _“I can’t help you. M.”_ Sherlock spent a few moments composing a suitably cutting reply. Then he flung his phone so that it landed on the armchair on the other side of the room. Then he lay back on the couch and tried to work out John’s favourite breakfast food based on what he liked to eat for lunch.

When he woke up someone was standing over him.

“You fucker,” someone grunted and then he was choking. He scrabbled at the strong hands round his throat. He could smell alcohol and cologne and tobacco and a familiar rank smell and that was enough to overwhelm him as well. He kicked out with his legs, hoping to thump against something, bring someone’s attention. Colin slapped him. Sherlock’s vision started to go dark, which was bad considering he hadn’t closed his eyes. Suddenly the pressure stopped. Colin reeled back clutching his head. Sherlock surged upright hacking and coughing, forcing air into his lungs. In the light from the streetlamp outside, he could see that John was standing over Colin, who was on his knees in front of him. He held his cane, that expensive length of wood cut down just for him, in both hands. As Colin moved to stand up John smacked him again, this time in the side of the head. The cane broke at the handle, and Colin toppled with a dull crunch.

“Are you alright?” John asked Sherlock, at his side immediately.

“Yes — yes.” Sherlock waved him off, clearing his throat. “You should- hem- you should call the police, I think.”

Colin came round about the same time the police came over. Lestrade was one of them.

“Do you know, everytime your name comes over the radio, I get called?” he asked Sherlock wearily. He was wearing crumpled trousers and no socks.

“Really?” Sherlock filed that away for further use.

“Yes. Really. Come on, this better be good.” Lestrade rubbed his face. Mrs. Hudson recruited ‘one of your strapping young men’ to bring up tea and biscuits. Sherlock gave a statement. John gave a statement. About midway through, John’s hand touched Sherlock’s, sat side by side on the couch, and then laced his fingers through Sherlock’s.

Of course, that’s not the end of the story. It so rarely is. Sherlock went to the station with John so that he could give a longer statement. He wasn’t allowed into the room, John (leaning on a very old medical-issue cane) was shown in by Lestrade and Donovan. Someone went in with tea, but the door clicked shut behind them. All Sherlock caught was John, looking at the table, saying something that he couldn’t catch. He felt ill. If this had been anyone else, he would have already left. Domestic violence, so very ordinary. Thousands of men and women and children had gone through similar things to John. If it had been anyone else, Sherlock would have already dismissed it, berated Lestrade for bringing him out for no reason, maybe with a zinger to Donovan over his shoulder as he swept out of the door. But this wasn’t anyone else. It was John Davidson (he really wanted to know his other name, the name that wasn’t in any way connected the bastard in the holding cell). So Sherlock sat in an uncomfortable chair with a polystyrene cup of weak tea in a room with one ancient magazine and a buzzing fluorescent light, played chess in his head and tried not to think of how small John had looked bowed over the table.

“Where are you staying at the moment?” Lestrade asked, as he opened the door to the tiny room.

“With me,” Sherlock said, standing. John stared at him. “You can have my bed, it’s just down the road from your old place if you need anything, I should think it would be perfect.”

Everyone looked at him.

“No, I think I should stay home tonight,” John said, finally. Sherlock didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say, which was an interesting, if unpleasant feeling. He spent most of the day staring at the wall of 221B, only heading out when it transpired that the last of the drinkable milk had been used last night. When he got home, Mycroft was sitting in his accustomed chair.

“What do you want?”

“You were attacked last night, allow me some brotherly concern.” Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the floor.

“I’m fine, see?” Sherlock dumped his coat and went into the kitchen, determined to ignore his brother till he smarmed off.

“You’re not going to try and pursue a relationship with him at this moment, are you?” Mycroft didn’t look at him, but Sherlock could tell he looked smug. Like a smug git who just won a smugging competition.

“I don’t see that that’s any of your business.” Sherlock honestly didn’t know himself.

The silence was meaningful, undercut with the sound of the kettle boiling. Finally, it was broken by a knock at the door. Sherlock, glaring at his brother’s ear (since he couldn’t see his face from this angle), pulled it open.

“Yes— Oh. Uh. Hello,” he said, stepping back from the door. It was John. And Mycroft was here. It was like some sort of horrible nightmare.

“I uh— wanted to say thank you and um—” John held up a steaming bag by means of explanation.

“Oh, um, come in.” Sherlock wondered if John would comment if he coshed Mycroft with his own umbrella.

“Oh, I didn’t realise you had company...” John shot a worried look at Mycroft and then the carrier bag, no doubt already working out how well the food would split between three.

“I was just about to go,” Mycroft said smoothly, standing and hooking his umbrella over one arm. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“My brother,” Sherlock mumbled. “Very busy, he has to leave now.” But Mycroft showed no inclination to leave.

“Pleased to meet you, Mister...?” Sherlock promised to leave something vile in Mycroft’s desk drawer. Soon.

“Uh. John. Call me John, for now.” John put the bag down to shake hands with Mycroft.

“John. Charmed, I’m sure. Perhaps we will see more of each other.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he walked past Sherlock, who did not push him down the stairs, in an admirable show of self-restraint.

“Right,” he said, turning to John. “Plates.”

“Your brother? I dread to think that there are two of you.”

“He’s nothing like me. He’s a smug git,” Sherlock said. John raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything as Sherlock came back through with two mostly unchipped plates.

At about the time John would usually leave to go to bed, he stood awkwardly.

“You can have my bed if you like,” Sherlock offered. “It’s cold out and you know, your flat...” He trailed off, tongue tied in the face of bad memory and John’s slumped shoulders.

John just said, “Thanks.”

A few hours later, Sherlock was woken with a start. Someone was in the kitchen.

“Sorry,” John whispered.

“It’s alright.” in the dark, Sherlock’s voice sounded loud and unnatural. He reached up and switched on the light. They both squinted in the light. John had moved a chair and knocked over some cardboard shoeboxes.

“What were you doing?” Sherlock rubbed his hair sleepily.

“I was getting a glass of water.” John stood very still, like he was worried that one move would bring a blade down. “I really am sorry for waking you,”

“No, it’s fine, really.” Sherlock held out a placating hand, and found two glasses. He wasn’t thirsty, but he knew the gesture was important. John sat down. “What woke you?”

“I... I have nightmares.” John looked into his glass.

“Oh,” was all Sherlock could think to say to that. What was it with this man and his unanswerable sentences? He reached out. John flinched, but forced himself to stay still as Sherlock touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that. Next time, there are generally glasses by the sink,” Sherlock yawned. “I can play violin.”

In the front room, in the two am stillness, Sherlock played the violin for John.

That’s still not really the end of the story though. There was a court case. John came to see Sherlock a lot, and then when it turned out he couldn’t make the mortgage on their flat without Colin’s input (and he wasn’t giving it, with the sort of malicious pleasure of a child stealing sweets from another), Sherlock offered him his bed for as long as he needed it. John soon found another place, a tiny bedsit on the other side of the park, but he was still over a lot. Sherlock would tell him about cases, cases he had done, or was in the middle of. John listened spellbound. Then one day, when the daffodils were trying their best to grow in Mrs. Hudson’s window box, he came over and said:

“Well, I’m John Watson again.”

“You’ve been John Watson for months.” Sherlock was staring into his microscope, not really listening. Finding out John’s other name had been like discovering fire, or plutonium, or a fingerprint on a windowsill. But right now there was something very off about what should have been a sample of very ordinary scrambled eggs. Perhaps botulinum?

“But now I’m officially John Watson, for better or worse.” John held up a bit of paper. Sherlock looked up, and smiled.

Three months later, Colin was staying on Her Majesty’s pleasure, both for John and for half a dozen other assault charges that for one reason or another hadn’t stuck properly before. That night Sherlock and John ate Chinese food and watched the telly. This was unremarkable except that Sherlock turned down quite an interesting case from Lestrade to stay in.

The story, or at least, this part, actually ends about a month after that. John turned up at Baker Street, surer than he’d ever been before. When Sherlock opened the door, John kissed him smack on the mouth.

“I just wanted to say, thank you.” he smiled up at Sherlock. Sherlock blinked, and his face was so surprised and silly that John laughed, and did it again. This time Sherlock got the idea. When the lease came up on John’s bedsit, he didn’t bother to renew it.


End file.
